


Artistic Licence

by uncafeavecbarnes



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Paris, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Desi Character, Dirty Talk, F/M, Nude Modeling, Paris (City), Smoking, Sugar Daddy, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:49:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28694226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uncafeavecbarnes/pseuds/uncafeavecbarnes
Summary: Once upon a time in Paris, there was an aspiring creative down on her luck. What’s a beautiful young woman to do? Agree for the wealthy Bucky Barnes to be her Sugar Daddy, of course.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 17
Kudos: 62





	1. Un

**Author's Note:**

> Salut, my loves. Oh, this is like coming home. This is like coming home to all of you. With a few changes, of course. I’m incredibly excited to share this with you and I hope you will fall in love all over again just as I have. Merci for all your love and support as always, this story will always be special to be because of all of you.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always welcome. You can also follow me on Tumblr.

_“Paris is the only city in the world where starving yourself is still considered an art.”_

You snort, cigarette ash littering the yellowing pages of your book. You reread the line once more, the irony not lost on you considering black coffee and cigarettes are the staples of your diet. Wanda’s good to you, she places arrays of cheese and bread down when you frequent her wine bar. More often than not, she’s also sent groceries to your apartment, ignoring the many protests. Wanda is a diamond, a rare gem in all the city. Stubbing the cigarette out, you tuck your book under your arm and begin your walk along the River Seine, dodging tourists searching for padlocks across one of the many bridges.

A small price to pay. One that Paris is wholeheartedly worth. _La vie en rose_. Charm that has not yet waned, nor is it likely ever to. It’s been a little over six months, not that you're worried. You've come here to escape the constraints of time and societal constructs of success. Still, Paris isn’t the cheapest city in the world and the rent won’t pay itself.

Luckily, you've found a way to help pay bills that doesn’t involve selling your soul to a big corporation or some immoral businessman. There’s an academy of arts you once stumbled upon not far from your apartment and that’s where you're headed. It’s only a few hours of your time but they pay quite well, and you've negotiated use of their facilities, too. Your footsteps echo as you trot up the marble steps, taking the winding staircase to the second floor.

“ _Salut_ , Maria.” comes your greeting.

“You’re late.” Maria replies, raising an eyebrow.

“I know, I’m sorry,” an apology as you shrugs your jacket off. “It won’t happen again.”

“That’s what you always say,” she sighs. “Just, hurry up so we can get started.”

* * *

Steve’s mouth is moving, but Bucky has developed the unique skill of tuning out his best friend when he’s delivering one of his lectures. It must be one of his worser ones because he notes Steve’s ‘eyebrows of disappointment’. That all too discernible pinch between his brows. Concern etched in every line of his face. Unreserved emotion that’s inescapable. A look that is far too frequent. Bucky loves his best friend dearly, but their business conversations always end with Steve probing into his love life. Steve means well, he’s simply that kind of person, but he fails to understand Bucky isn’t ready to jump back into a relationship yet.

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?”

There’s a hint of accusation laced in Steve’s words but Bucky doesn’t even bother to look guilty. His head simply lolls to one side, his shoulders rising and falling in an unapologetic shrug. Leisured indifference as always. Steve sighs and studies his best friend, earning himself a groan.

“Steve, for the love of God, stop _worryin_ ’.”

“It’s been a year, Bucky. All you do is _work_.”

Bucky snorts and Steve raises an eyebrow. His look of disappointment simply deepens, earns an exasperated sigh that’s steamrolled over.

“Having lunch with me and Peggy on Sundays doesn’t count.”

Scoffing, Bucky is all too familiar with the feeling that arguing with Steve is a fruitless task so he scrapes his chair back loudly as he stands. An indication that the conversation is over. For now, at the very least. The time between each of these conversations seems to shorten more and more. Steve mimics him, following him to the door.

“Why don’t you join one of the art classes again?” Steve proposes.

“Don’t have the time.”

The excuse falls from Bucky’s lips all too easily, the two men walking down the empty corridor. Bucky’s hands are shoved in his pockets as he glances into the various classrooms. Rarely does much capture his attention. Only rarely.

A flurry of movement _does_ catch his eye and he stops, feet rooted to the spot as he’s greeted by a periwinkle blue shirt sliding down a pair of shoulders. It’s happening in slow motion, smooth skin being revealed to him inch by inch and he knows he should look away, but he’s helpless to do anything except watch as a black lace bra joins the growing pile of clothes.

Bucky’s eyes are fixed on the woman’s small frame as she patters across the room, pulling aside a curtain and taking a seat on a small couch surrounded by students, all impatiently waiting with open sketchbooks and poised pencils. Confidence in the way she carries herself. The temptation to watch her every move far too great. Revised choreography in the way she settles. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder, allowing him a glimpse of her face and his tongue darts out, licking his suddenly dry lips as he commits her beauty to his memory.

Her body is bare to him but his eyes only dance over her briefly before they flit back up to her face. She’s pretty enough. Not stunning and certainly not ethereal, but there’s something exquisite about her he can’t quite put his finger on. She has a natural kind of beauty about her; her face is free from make-up and it appears that fingers see her hair more than a brush does. There’s warmth in her eyes, sunlight gleaming in her irises. And that smile, it’s small, it’s coy and it makes Bucky wish he were the reason for it.

A chuckle shatters his bubble and composing himself, Bucky turns his head, rolling his eyes at the amusement on Steve’s face. Disappointment long gone, only to be replaced by mischief. It twinkles back at Bucky as he pauses, a moment to reflect on a decision.

“Sorry pal, but that view’s for students only.”

Bucky grunts as Steve claps a hand on his shoulder. Sneaking one more glance at the pretty woman, he rounds on his friend defiantly.

“Alright, where do I sign up?”


	2. Deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a new face in your class, one who fancies himself a knight in shining armour in your supposed hour of need. He's handsome, he's talented, he's James Barnes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salut, my loves. There’s really nothing I have to say for this chapter, I just hope you enjoy it. Please be kind.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always welcome. You can also follow me on Tumblr.

Specks of dust dance in the rays of sunshine that stream through the window. The radio is playing away softly, the tune so familiar to you now that you hum along subconsciously. You’re on time for once, but only because you’ve been in the studio since lunch. The smell of turpentine is oddly comforting to you, the silence of the empty room allowing you to finish your writing in peace. You only hope the newspaper will pay you in a timely fashion; rent and bills looming.

Perhaps one day, you won’t need to rely on other sources of income. Dreams of your imagined success fill your mind as Maria calls out your name and you wordlessly make your way over to the dais in the centre of the studio. The strangest sensation washes over you and it’s only when you straighten up that you realise why.

The most striking pair of blue eyes look back at you and you shiver involuntarily. You’ve never felt so _exposed_ and suddenly, shyness overcomes you. The crystal blue eyes rake over your bared skin, leaving behind a decided flush. And yet, there’s nothing perverted about the intensity of his stare. You’ve done this enough times to recognise a true artist’s gaze. A gaze that appreciates every freckle, admires every contour, adores every line.

In turn, you let your eyes trail over him. He’s dressed simply in a grey t-shirt and dark jeans, much like the others. Perhaps it’s the way his muscular thighs are outlined, or the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, but he oozes charm and sex which is _so_ unlike all the others. You imagine he’s the kind of man who need only walk into a room to command it, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. You lift your chin haughtily and meet his eyes once more, smiling confidently back at him so he knows _exactly_ the kind of woman that you are.

The better part of the hour is spent spinning an elaborate story in your head about the handsome man before you. You play Sherlock, looking for clues that will help you paint a picture of who he is. He’s not French, of that much you’re sure; he doesn’t carry himself like one. He’s wealthy; he’s not decked in flashy logos but he’s wearing a Rolex on his left wrist. He has style but doesn’t want to look like he’s trying too hard; the sneakers he’s wearing are brilliantly white, not a single scuff in sight.

Eventually, your thoughts run away from you and you let them. Maria’s voice announcing the end of the class brings you back down to earth and as she encourages the students to critique each other’s work, you stand and languidly make your way back to your clothes, a pair of blue eyes watching you the entire time.

You’re in your jeans, sliding your arms into your button-up shirt when you feel his presence behind you. His scent is intoxicating and you take a minute to breathe in it; leather accord, cashmeran, bitter almond. It’s a bold expression of pure luxury and masculinity. Slowly, you turn to face him. Time seems to still before he breaks the silence.

“ _Bonjour_ , _mademoiselle_.”

No, he’s definitely not French. There’s a tilt to his accent and instantly, you know him to be American. He hasn’t seemingly guessed that you’re not a native Parisian either, so you keep up your little charade.

“ _Monsieur_ ,” you nod. “ _Comment puis-je vous aider_?”

“ _Je souhaite_ , uh, _vous montrer mon travail_?”

You’re amused by how tentative he sounds, almost unsure of himself, as he politely offers his drawing out to you. You smile, leaving your shirt unbuttoned as you move beside him. He’s _talented_ , not that you ever doubted it, but a shiver runs down your spine at the deft marks he’s made on the paper. It’s more than a drawing, it’s as if he’s captured all your emotions with his pencil.

“ _Vous avez un talent pour le dessin_.”

He perks at your praise, his smile brightens his blue eyes and just as you’re about to lose yourself in them, Maria materialises out of nowhere, an apologetic smile directed at you both.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I need to speak to her.”

Not only does Maria confirm your suspicions about him, she also reveals that you too, are not Parisian. This newfound knowledge seems to delight him, his smile turning into something more of a smirk but you’re not embarrassed, smirking right back at him as Maria leads you aside.

“Is this the part where you tell me I was actually on time today?” you grin.

“Actually, I have some bad news,” she replies. “I have to let you go.”

Your face falls and Maria has the courtesy to look apologetic.

“Is this because of my lateness?” you stammer, but she shakes her head.

“No.”

“Then?”

“It’s nothing against you,” she says in what she imagines to be a reassuring tone. “But, you’ve been with us for a few months and I think the students need a new challenge.”

“But, we had an agreement. Reduced pay so I can use the facilities and- I need this job, Maria!”

“I’m sorry.”

A certain dread blankets you. A cocktail of anger, worry, and sorrow. Anxiety begins to creep in, defeat making your bones ache dully. It’s when you feel hot tears prickle your eyes that you snatch up your belongings and scarper, barely paying the blue-eyed man a second glance.

You find yourself standing in front of the Seine, haphazardly buttoning your shirt up as you balance an unlit cigarette between your lips. Flinging your bag at your feet, you huff when you realise you’ve lost your lighter.

“May I?”

You whirl around at the sound of his deep voice. He looks handsomer, if that’s possible, in the dying light. The last few dregs of sunshine highlight the sparse grey hairs that pepper his beard, something you find inexplicably attractive. He’s clutching a lighter in his right hand, and you lean towards the flickering flame, your cigarette still tucked in your mouth.

“Thank you.”

“Ah, she speaks English.” he teases, lighting his own cigarette.

“Better than you speak French.” you tease back.

“In my defence, I’m used to talking business, not conversational French with beautiful women.”

“And do you normally follow them, too?”

“You’re the exception.”

You know you should be concerned. He may not have followed you far, the academy practically sits on the riverbank, but you barely know this man. You look at him questioningly, only to be met with a smirk that reeks of mischief.

“You intrigue me,” he says lowly. “You’re beautiful and smart.”

You laugh harshly, ash falling from your dwindling cigarette and fluttering down to the cobbles.

“Well, take a good look as I won’t be in your class any longer.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m here,” he says, and your eyes snap to his. “I overheard your conversation with Maria.”

Heat floods your cheeks, but he’s quick to reassure that embarrassing you isn’t his intention.

“I’d like to propose an arrangement, one that’s mutually beneficial.”

You remain silent and he takes it as an invitation to continue.

“You wouldn’t have to worry about paying your rent or bills,” he explains. “Anything that involves money, I’d take care of it, of _you_.”

He pauses and you wait for the catch.

“In return,” he says slowly, stepping closer to you. “I’d like to draw you again. Just the two of us.”

Is that it?

“And I’d like the occasional company.”

Company? Oh, _company_.

“Let me see if I have this right,” you say quietly. “You want to pay me to take my clothes off for you?”

“Not so crudely,” he reasons calmly. “It’s not about treating you like an escort or- “

“I don’t even know your name!”

“James, but you can call me Bucky.”

“Well, _James_ , you might be attractive and wealthy, but you’re crazy!”

Shooting him one final glare, you clutch your bag to your chest and storm off as fast as your feet will carry you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://uncafeavecbarnes.tumblr.com/)


	3. Trois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still handsome but no longer a stranger, Bucky surprises you with a courtesy to his offer that you just can't refuse. A glass of wine with Wanda helps with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salut, my loves. Oh, how I wish I was in Paris. To be walking the streets of Montmartre, gazing at the Eiffel Tower from the metro, sipping a coffee outside the Sorbonne. And of course, sharing wine and sordid encounters with a one James Barnes. Gosh, this is the dream.

“Wait, wait, wait,” says Wanda, pouring you a glass of wine. “A man offered to be your _sugar_ _daddy_?”

“Yes.” you groan back, encouraging her to fill the glass to the brim.

“And you said _no_?”

“Wanda!”

“What?” she cries. “I’m just saying, you should have at least considered it.”

You mutter a few choice words into your glass, the wine slipping down easy as anything. Wanda is undeterred, evidently not done discussing the subject. You’re perched at the counter of her wine bar, a small but established gem of a place. A local watering hole away from the prying eyes of tourists; the bare brick walls, exposed wooden beams and dusty light beams are all a welcome sight.

“Was he at least cute?” presses Wanda, interrupting your thoughts.

“No,” you reply. “He was _gorgeous_.”

Wanda looks positively aghast and you sigh, slumping in your seat. Propping your hand under your chin, you think back to James.

“He had these soulful blue eyes, Wanda,” you lament. “And the sharpest jawline. Honestly, he was so pretty I didn’t know if I wanted to take a polaroid of his face or sit on it.”

The chuckle behind you is quiet but unmistakable. A deep rumble that makes your belly flip and your eyes widen until they’re roughly the size of saucers. Wanda purses her lips as you peek at her through your fingers.

“He’s behind me, isn’t he?”

Wanda peers over your shoulder.

“Soulful blue eyes, sharp jawline, a face you want to sit on,” she reels through the checklist. “Yes, I think he’s behind you.”

You want to stab Wanda with your wine glass. You swivel around when James puts a hand down on the bar beside you, the silver of his Rolex just visible beneath his jacket sleeve. Your eyes trail up the length of his arm to his eyes, finding that he’s starting at you intently.

“You really should stop following me.”

“You were upset,” he replies quietly. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You’re taken by surprise at his admission. It’s earnest, perhaps the gentlest you’ve seen this brooding, brickhouse of a man and you can’t help but smile softly. He beckons at the stool.

“May I?”

You nod and James slides on to it smoothly. His hand reaches out, picking up your glass and bringing it up to his face. He swills the wine around, sniffing it before quipping a brow and pushing it back across the bar towards Wanda. Glancing at the shelf behind her, he points to a bottle in the middle.

“The Red Sancerre, please.”

Wanda is bewildered, practically awed as she retrieves the black bottle and uncorks it. James insists on pouring it himself, and she winks in your direction as she places down two glasses. You watch him pour two equal glassfuls and hand you the first.

“I think you’ll like this one.”

You want to admonish him for presuming to know you so well, but the words die away when you take a sip. It slips down easily, your tastebuds humming at how much better it is than the cheap stuff you normally resort to. James’ toying smirk doesn’t escape you, but you refuse to back down so easily.

“And why’s that?”

“It suits you,” he answers, voice as smooth as the wine. “Wins men and women alike over with smarts, looks, and charm. It's romantic and intoxicating. It's sex in a glass.”

You shouldn’t be so charmed by him, but your head is swimming with his deep voice and he’s a vision sipping wine whilst swathed in candlelight; his muscular legs parted invitingly and it’s tearing away at your resolve. Still, you haven’t been reduced to a giggling schoolgirl just yet, so you boldly take another sip of your wine and fix him with a fierce gaze.

“Are you hoping to change my mind about your _offer_?”

“No, but I’d like you to consider it. I didn’t explain myself well, I want to clarify what I meant.”

“And if after consideration, I still say no?”

“Then I’ll respect your decision and you’ll never see me again.”

You observe James, but your instincts don’t detect any reason to be afraid. He hasn’t given you any reason to doubt his honesty so you nod your agreement to hear him out.

You learn that his name is James Buchanan Barnes, but apparently, everyone calls him Bucky. You quickly decide you don’t want to be like everyone else. Bucky is too comfortable, a boundary not worth crossing yet. He’s a lawyer, heading up the European division of his firm here in Paris. It’s been a year since his last relationship ended and he’s not looking to jump into anything serious. He knows other people who have similar arrangements in place but this is the first time he has ever expressed his interest. That catches your attention and you’re blurting out the question before you can stop yourself.

“Why me?”

“You intrigue me,” he grins. “You inspired me to get back into art. You have this beauty that’s… compelling. You’re beautiful in a very natural, real way.”

James renders you speechless and his little smirk tells you he knows it. There’s nothing false about his charm though, it’s not an act or some ploy to trick you. As if to prove himself, he rakes his eyes over you and you’re thankful you’re clothed this time because it feels as if your whole body has gone up in flames. You’re not quite ready to say yes, though.

“So, how does it work?” you question. “You give me cash and I have to be the Anastasia Steele to your Christian Grey?”

“I’d never force you,” he says firmly, looking you in the eye. “It has to be consensual otherwise it’s not happening.”

James is quite serious about the matter and you appreciate it.

“Although, I’m not sure I appreciate the Fifty Shades comparison,” he chuckles, sipping his wine. “This arrangement isn’t necessarily _that_ kind of unconventional. This isn’t about me controlling or manipulating you, _chérie_.”

It’s the first time he’s said your name and oh, it’s like honey the way it rolls off his tongue. Your pulse races, your mind flashing with images of him moaning it in the heat of the moment.

“Can I ask you something?” he says and you nod. “What was your first impression of me?”

You giggle into your wine and he looks at you curiously, his grin dipping to one side cheekily.

“That you were beautiful,” you muse and his grin widens. “Beautiful and alluring, in an almost dangerous way.”

James seems pleased. You wonder why. He’s attractive, he must have women falling to his feet all the time. And yet, even as the thought crosses your mind, you’re somewhat pleased yourself that out of all those women, it’s _you_ that he’s interested in. You tilt your head to one side, drinking him in.

“There is one thing, James.”

“Of course, what do you need to know?”

“What you’re like as a lover.”

James straightens up, an ocean raging in his blue eyes. He’s not quite sure if you’re mocking him, so you quell his fears with a teasing jibe.

“Well, it’s all very well you wanting to spoil me,” you elaborate. “But I need to know if you paying my bills is worth the sex.”

* * *

You live across the street from Wanda’s wine bar, in a corner apartment on the fifth floor of a building that doesn’t have an elevator. It’s not much, but you call it home. The scuffed windows that run the length of the two outside walls offer a view of the courtyard below and the street as well. Most days, you prefer not to waste electricity, basking in the light that streams through instead. A threadbare couch sits in front of a coffee table littered with newspapers, polaroids and pens you once thought possessed a magic to turn you into a brilliant writer. A bathtub stands freely under one of the windows, and at the far end of the open space is a mattress on the floor. It’s not dirty, simply messy. The home of a creative.

James’ footsteps echo against the bare wooden floor. Although he’s silently observing his surroundings, you’re wondering how his own apartment compares. You’re not ashamed in the slightest, you’re quite happy here, but it’s not the five star accommodation he must be familiar with. Having said that, the window above the bathtub does offer a beautiful view of the neighbourhood. You stop in front of it, customers spilling out of Wanda’s bar onto the cobbled street.

Footsteps halt behind you and James’ delicious scent engulfs you once more. Your heart is racing erratically, your breath hitching when he sweeps your hair behind an ear. He runs his nose down the length of your neck, his fingers curling around your hips. His lips ghost over a particularly sensitive spot and you gasp, your hands pressed to the cold window to stop your knees from buckling. In the reflection of the glass, his eyes meet yours.

James doesn’t say anything, but he keeps his eyes on yours as his fingers glide up your sides. They reach the buttons on your shirt, lazily undoing each one as his lips continue to trail over the sensitive skin of your neck. His stubble tickles in the most delightful way and you whimper as he nips at a spot in the crook of your neck, dragging his tongue over the burning sting. His left is tracing circles on your bared skin as his right works at the fastening on your jeans.

James chuckles into your shoulder when you step out the denim hurriedly, but your brain is too foggy with desire to care. You haven’t even kissed yet and he’s driving you _crazy_ with the feel of his rough fingers skimming across your thighs. The intensity in his eyes has you parting your legs, and you’re treated to that sexy chuckle again.

“I could fuck you like this,” he whispers, fingers dancing along the hem of your underwear. “Right in front of this window. Watch you come apart in the reflection while you wonder if those people down on the street can see what I’m doing to you.”

“ _James_.”

His name is all you can manage, his words are fuel to the fire that’s burning low in your belly. His hips press into yours and you gasp at the feel of his hardness through his jeans. Instinctively, you press back and he growls lowly, any semblance of rationality you had fleeing at the sound. There’s a haziness in his eyes now, and he grazes his fingertips along your inner thigh. You mewl audibly when he brushes them over the fabric of your underwear, teasing you through the material.

“You make such pretty noises, princess.”

The pet name alone is enough to rip a moan from your throat. Your head is spinning, blood gushing in your ears and you don’t realise he’s tugged your underwear down until his fingers brush over your clit. He circles it slowly and your head falls back against his shoulder. He teases you until you’re all but _begging_ him, and only then does he oblige. With that devilish smirk on his lips, he slides one finger in, and then another, the heel of his hand rubbing against your clit.

“You’re so wet, princess,” he whispers in your ear. “So hot and tight.”

“ _James_!”

His name falls mindlessly from your lips as you fall over the edge of ecstasy, the pleasure overwhelmingly unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. James is still holding on to you when your heart has finally slowed enough for you to lift your head, pressing soft kisses into your neck. He stops when you meet his gaze in the reflection again, lifting his fingers to his mouth and sucking the taste of you off him.

James Barnes is going to be the death of you.

Turning around slowly to face him, you take in his hungry expression. His blue eyes have almost blackened with lust and your eyes flutter down to his pink lips. He doesn’t give you another warning before crashing them down on yours. You can taste the red wine from earlier, and you’re helpless but to melt against him. James wastes no time tasting you, his tongue prying your lips apart in a kiss that’s demanding. There’s no hesitation, he’s ruthless in the best way and you let the kiss consume you.

Strong arms wrap around you and you squeak when you’re hoisted up, but James claims your mouth in another kiss before depositing you on your mattress. You watch, entranced by the way he pulls his t-shirt off, baring a built chest and defined muscles. You’re slick with arousal but you don’t realise it, too engrossed in the way he pulls his jeans and boxers off in one fluid motion. As he retrieves a condom from his wallet, you cast your own shirt and bra aside. You shiver in the slight chill, but then James is on top of you, and you mewl at the feel of his hot skin on yours. His eyes find yours, almost as if he’s seeking permission and it makes you giggle, until he pulls your hips up and slams into you.

“Holy hell, princess,” he groans. “You’re so fucking _tight_.”

You moan in response, arching your back. He lays still for a moment, letting you adjust to the feel of him. Only when you squirm beneath him does he move. It’s slow, agonisingly so, but it feels _exquisite_ and he soon has you begging him for more.

“James, _please_.”

He groans into your neck, louder when your fingernails bite into his shoulders. His head dips to take a nipple in his mouth, his fingers pinching and rolling the other and you writhe, an intense mix of pain and pleasure shooting down to your core. You cry out as you feel your second orgasm approaching and you can sense James is almost there too, his thrusts growing sloppy.

“Let go, princess.”

His command is your undoing. Your mind goes blank. You fall apart at the seams, overwhelmed by James and surrendering to everything he wants to give you. The feel of you coming around him is too much, and you watch as he tumbles into bliss shortly after you, your name a mere growl on his lips. His breath tickles with his pants, and your heart is still racing at a million miles an hour when he raises his head.

“I need to clean up,” he says in a gravelly voice. “Stay here.”

James is unabashed, still naked as he makes his way over to the bathroom. You lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling as you commit the night to your memory. He returns with a damp washcloth and you’re surprised by how tenderly he attends to you. Your feelings beginning to overwhelm you once more, you mumble an excuse about needing the bathroom. Leaning against the closed door, you exhale a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding in. You take your time, mind reminiscing about his offer all the while.

When you emerge, James is lying on top of the messy bed sheets, an arm tucked under his head as he lazily scrolls through his phone. His hair is a mess, his pink lips swollen and he hasn’t bothered to put his clothes back on. God, he really is so _handsome_. You were in a rush earlier, but you take the opportunity now to drink in the beautiful man naked in your bed.

He notices. Of course he notices. His phone is thrown aside and he’s beckoning you over with a crooked finger and an equally crooked grin. You lay down beside him, unsure of the protocol but he pulls you close, your head on his chest.

“So,” he grins, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Good enough to pay your bills?”

You burst out laughing but he only dances his eyebrows suggestively. Humming, you trail your fingers through the soft smattering of hair under his collarbone. His tone is lighthearted, playful even, but it’s a serious matter and you roll on to your front, looking him in the eyes.

“Yes,” you confirm quietly. “Yes, I’d like to take you up on your offer.”

James nods, smiling contentedly but he doesn’t leap about with joy either.

“Sleep on it,” he suggests, reaching for the covers. “And in the mornin’, if you still feel the same, we’ll lay some ground rules, okay?”

Smiling at how respectful he is towards your decision making, you lay back down and inhale in him. His chest rises and falls with every breath, drowsiness beginning to overcome you. Only when he’s on the brink of sleep does he shift out from under you, putting space in between you both. But he doesn’t stray far; rolling on to his side and giving you one final lazy smirk before you drift off peacefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://uncafeavecbarnes.tumblr.com/)


	4. Quatre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, typically the most dreaded time of all. Yet, not with Bucky. Breakfast is a treat, both for you and for him, with agreed expectations and a taste of something sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salut, my loves. Oh, I do look forward to sharing this story with you. There are some of my own experiences in this one, in particular, where Bucky takes the Reader for breakfast. Paris is just as beautiful in memory as it is in person. I hope you enjoy this one, I think there’s a certain magic to it that I rather enjoyed writing.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always welcome. You can also follow me on Tumblr.

The bed is cosy, the sun warm on his skin. He’s been content to drift in and out of consciousness for the past ten minutes. But now, the light is too strong to ignore. It’s with great reluctance that Bucky opens his eyes. He blinks in the sudden sunshine, taking a couple of minutes to adjust to the unfamiliar surroundings.

He’s greeted by exposed metal beams in the ceiling and windows that could do with a good clean. A stack of books serve as a bedside table; they house a half-empty packet of cigarettes, a box of matches, a tube of red lipstick and currently, his watch. There’s a few plant pots placed along the floor, and he narrows his eyes at what he _thinks_ is a great, fluffy cat sniffing suspiciously at his shoes.

You’re sitting at the foot of the mattress, sunshine streaking through your hair in sharp lines. You run a hand through it, tousling the already messy locks and Bucky raises his head, realising you’re yet to put on any clothes and he delights in it. His eyes trace your exposed body and he’s stirring beneath the covers. An artist’s admiration as much as a lover’s. There’s a wonder in your every move. You pull the pen from between your teeth and continue scribbling in your maroon notebook. A smile graces his face. He’s not sure how much time has passed, but he refuses to disturb your peace.

“What are you staring at, Mr. Barnes?” comes your voice, your eyes still awash with the magic of whatever you’re writing.

“You,” he replies boldly, propping himself up on his elbows. “I wish I had my sketchbook, you look beautiful like this.”

You close your notebook with a _snap_ and crawl up the mattress. Bucky is treated to your breasts hanging invitingly in his face as you reach across him. Before he can take advantage of the situation, you’re tucking a cigarette between his lips and lighting a match. He takes a few puffs before you pluck the cigarette for yourself, lying beside him on your stomach. Silence has engulfed you both, but it’s not awkward in the slightest. It’s the kind of serene he has forgotten existed. He lies in the cocoon of your perfume, his eyes and hands free to roam your body as they please.

“So, last night,” he says, the final ember of your cigarette burning out. “You thought any more ‘bout it?”

“I have,” you reply with an air of mystery. “My answer is still yes.”

Bucky can’t help the grin that erupts on his face and it’s not just because you’re lying across him now, your breasts dragging across his chest. You’ve noticed, judging by your own grin, although that might be because his hands have found a ticklish spot on your side.

“Does that mean I changed your mind?” he teases, earning a roll of your eyes.

“No,” you scoff half-heartedly. “I simply took your offer into consideration.”

“Consideration my ass.”

Bucky chuckles when you squeal, his large hands squeezing your ass playfully. You feel so soft, so delicate and so heavenly. He’s only had you for one night and God, he already wants _more_. Images of last night flit through his memory but he stops himself before he gets carried away. As much as he wants you under him, moaning his name as he ravishes you, he has to honour his word.

“Why don’t we get some breakfast?” he murmurs, fingers gliding up your naked back. “Lay down those ground rules?”

“I normally just have a cup of _chai_ for breakfast. I can run down to the _supermarché_ and get you something?”

“That’s not gonna work for me.”

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Bucky is sliding into a chair at a little cafe called _Claus_. He insists you take the booth seat, the couch far more comfortable. Your nervous glance doesn’t go by unnoticed, and he briefly wonders if he should reassure you that you aren’t out of place. If anything, you belong here amongst the contemporary French interior. You’re wearing black jeans and a white t-shirt, your hair still tousled and a quick dab of red lipstick on your mouth. It’s understated, sexy in a subtle way and perhaps that’s why he likes it so much.

For the first time in twelve months, Bucky’s _excited_. And dare he say, _happy_. Alright, perhaps a large percentage of that excitement is simply animalistic desire but with such a beautiful woman like you, can you blame him? He’s already planned out all the different ways he wants to draw you, not to mention all the different ways he wants to _take_ you, and it’s all so _exciting_.

Bucky realises he’s forgotten all about the menu in his hands, too preoccupied with observing you, as the waiter approaches ready to take an order. You’re gnawing at your bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed.

“I can’t decide between the _roesti avec saumon fumé_ or the _Pancake Bavarois_.” you muse.

The waiter offers his own recommendations before Bucky holds his menu up.

“She’ll have both,” he orders, your jaw dropping. “And I’ll have the same.”

He orders a pot of coffee, orange juice and a bread basket for good measure amidst your protests. He merely shrugs in response, citing that he’ll eat whatever you don’t. He likes food and he’s not shy about it. Neither are you. In a city like Paris, there’s simply far too much good cuisine to ignore.

“You know this is how it’s gonna work, right?” he quips as you sip your coffee. “I’m gonna spend money on you.”

“Yes, but, ordering me three types of breakfast is a little extravagant.” you argue, fingers dithering over the bread basket.

“I don’t think you get it, _chérie_ , I _want_ to spoil you.”

Bucky is amused that your cheeks colour pink. You seem to like the pet names, and he likes the reaction they elicit from you. You squirm in your seat, shooting him a glare which only succeeds in widening his grin. He knows he’s a cheeky bastard and he’s not about to stop any time soon.

“I thought you were going to cover my rent? Pay my bills, that sort of thing.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t spoil you.”

He stops chuckling when your brows furrow.

“Hey,” he says softly, meeting your eyes. “This isn’t eye for an eye, you know. It doesn’t mean you’re obligated to do more for me. You understand that, right?”

“What _do_ you want from me?”

There is no rudeness in your voice, not so much as a hint of malice. Bucky admires your openness and he tells you as much. This arrangement is only as good as your honesty, so he does his best to be clear about his expectations. He knows exactly what he’s getting into, he just wants to make sure you do, too. Having said that, he doesn’t think you’re the kind of woman to play along and trick him into a relationship. You’re genuine, and from what he gathers, you’re not looking for a relationship either and that makes it all the easier.

“I wanna draw you,” he reiterates. “And I wanna fuck you.”

He pauses to take a sip of his coffee.

“Anything beyond that’s just me spoiling you. Nice restaurants, parties, shoes…”

You appear to be processing his words, letting them sink in as you cut up your food and chew it slowly. Bucky reminds you he will pay your rent and your bills, plus an extra sum of money each week, at which point you choke on your orange juice.

“For what?” you gasp.

“Your time,” he replies obviously. “You’re gonna be sittin’ there posing for me, aren’t you?”

“ _Yes_ , but I thought…”

Bucky waves a hand airily. It’s only fair, the academy would be paying you for your time so why should this arrangement be any different? At first he’s worried you think it’s not enough, his offering is pocket change to a man like him. But, you’re quite insistent that’s all you need, even throwing in a little joke that for that much money he can do whatever he wants to you.

“Careful what you wish for.” he says huskily, eyes darkening devilishly.

You squirm under his heated gaze and Bucky is suddenly finished with breakfast. His interest lies elsewhere now. But, he chooses to wait patiently and allow you to finish eating your croissant. You’re teasing him, licking jam off your finger. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as you draw your finger into your mouth. Your eyes trained on his as you suck the red jelly off. You hum blissfully and he feels the strain in his jeans.

It takes Bucky precisely ten minutes to exact his revenge. No sooner do you step out of the cafe that he tugs your hand and you find yourself tumbling down a deserted side street. He swallows your gasp, crashing his lips down on yours in a bruising kiss. He wants to drive you as crazy as you do him. He wants you out of your mind with desire and he wastes no time pulling your jeans and underwear to your ankles, promising kisses being pressed in your thighs.

“ _Shit_ , _princesse_ ,” he growls. “You smell so damn sweet.”

You purr in response, whimpering when he nips at your inner thigh. The bite of it is one you’ll feel for _days_ and the thought spurs him on. He groans at your nails scratching his scalp, fingers yanking at his hair incessantly as his mouth draws closer to your core. You’re _so_ damn wet already and he can’t find it in him to tease you, he’ll save that for that later.

“Bet you taste just as sweet.”

“ _James_ ,” you sigh, head thrown back against the brick wall. “James I- oh my _God_!”

Bucky chuckles to himself but the rumble of it only makes you moan louder. He knows he should quieten you but right now he couldn’t care less if the whole damn neighbourhood heard just how good he’s making you feel. You’re writhing as he runs his tongue over you, pausing to swirl around your throbbing clit. He loves how responsive you are, how you don’t hold back in letting the pleasure consume you. He rewards you with a harsh flick of his tongue, his hands pinning your hips to the wall as your breathy whimpers plead him.

Bucky obliges eagerly, growling as he dips his tongue deep in your core, lapping at your arousal. His stubble rubs deliciously against your soft skin as he glides his fingers in you, remembering how your tight heat felt around his cock last night. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks and he can feel how close you are as he flicks his tongue faster against your bundle of nerves.

It’s when he draws it into his mouth, sucking softly that you finally come. Bucky doesn’t slow down, his mouth still on you as you ride the hot waves of pleasure that roll through you. He’s in heaven, hearing the pretty noises that escape from your lips, the hot flush that’s spread over your skin, the way your fingers tangle with his hair. A string of curses follow and he chuckles, leaving sweet kisses over your thighs before pulling your jeans back up.

“ _Putain_ , James,” you pant, opening one eye and he chuckles again.

Your hand brushes over the bulge in his jeans and he groans, grabbing your wrist to still your movements. There’s confusion etched on your face and he smiles weakly.

“I have to get to work.”

“But, _you_ …”

“Tonight,” he whispers huskily, smirking at your shudder. “Tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://uncafeavecbarnes.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://uncafeavecbarnes.tumblr.com/)


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